


Chicago Burning

by Ruth_Devero



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why is an arsonist targeting the low-rent end of Chicago? And, more important, does EVERY nutcase planning for the end of the millennium want to talk to Ray Vecchio?  The gen version of the slash story "The Fire This Time"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicago Burning

Bright flower blooming at the water’s edge, dancing in the breeze, reflected in the pool beneath it. Pretty flower. Light poured from it, sharp as diamonds.

Out of the bright colors of her mind, now into dimness punctuated by her vision of clarity. Flower clear as the sun, bowing in the breeze.

She crawled out and reached for the flower, but it bobbed out of her grasp. She tried again, but her fingers closed on nothing. The water smelled odd, not like something to drink—a little pool reflecting the flower dancing and bobbing in the breeze.

Nausea stole into her; lingered. Her skin twitched at the touch of air. She was shaking. Tree nearby; she grasped at it to climb to her feet. More. Find more of the good stuff.

Tree knocked her down. Her hand closed around one of its leaves. Her stomach knotted inside her. The flower’s brightness pierced her eyes. It bobbed close to the water.

But there was no breeze here in the darkness, where rat scuttle made her cringe. Her fingers were dark where they’d tried to grasp the flower. She dropped the leaf and scrambled away from the scurrying rats.

And as the flower fell and the pool caught fire, it came to her that it had not been a flower at all. No, not at all.

———

Wolf whistles greeted him at the 27th.

“Hey! _Hey!_ Keep it classy!” Detective Ray Vecchio shouted against the noise. You’d think they’d never seen it before. What was handcuffed to him wasn’t all that unusual: red-orange hair slicked straight back; purple dress with skirt up to _here_ and cleavage down to _there_ ; ruffled lavender ankle socks over lime-colored tights; and little strappy shoes with four-inch heels. Silver earrings shaped like little models of the solar system. Navy eyeshadow smudged clear around her eyes. Just your average hooker—with a twist. Alessandra Willson wasn’t a hooker, but a pickpocket who did zilch for the money she took.

But the language she put into her walk promised different. “Hey, sell it on the street,” he protested, and she turned a flirtatious smile on him. Like it really meant something. Jeez, what a ham.

Second floor.

“Well, Tuktoyaktuk is about as far from most places as you can get.” Ah, Constable Benton Fraser, Super Mountie, looking wholesome and upright in his red dress uniform, talking to a citizen who looked neither wholesome nor upright. “But, might I point out, sir, that if indeed the world _is_ going to end on January 1, 2001, as you apparently believe it will, then one would assume that— _Canada_ will also be—er—ending.”

Ray rolled his eyes. Not even the turn of the next century yet, and already they were hearing from every nut in the greater Chicago area. Maybe he could build up enough vacation time to take off from January, 1999, to January, 2002—miss most of it. Maybe hide out somewhere safe, like, well, Tuktoyaktuk.

“Hey, Fraser!” Ray called as he walked his prisoner toward his desk, ignoring the grins from the male detectives, ignoring the sway Aless had put in her walk.

“ _Oh!_ ” Fraser jumped as they passed.

“Hands off the Mountie, Aless,” Ray ordered.

He jumped, himself, when her free hand squeezed his left buttock. “Hands off the cop.”

As Ray seated her and cuffed her to the chair beside his desk, Aless licked the index finger of her free hand and gently laid the wet finger on Ray’s sleeve, emitting a small hiss that implied that he was pretty hot stuff. He couldn’t help but grin. “I appreciate the compliment, Aless.”

She turned and blew a kiss at Fraser, whose answering smile looked forced. “Thank you kindly,” he said.

“Yeah, Fraser, what can I do you for?” Ray asked, draping his coat jacket over the back of his chair.

The constable stepped forward, rummaging in his hat. “Well, Ray, I have that money I borrowed from you last week—” He held out a ten-dollar bill.

Hey, hey—things were looking up. Ten bucks American, good bust: first day back from vacation was starting off right. Ray admired the crisp green bill, smiling right back at Alexander Hamilton.

“Um—Ray. Is she—mute?” Concern almost overrode curiosity Fraser’s voice.

“No, Fraser, Aless just finds that actions speak louder than words. Right, Aless?”

She grinned at him, he eyes full of lascivious promises. Oh, yeah—he believed all _that_.

“ _Vec_ -chio!” Lieutenant Welsh’s bellow was something a bull elephant could envy.

“Yes _sir!_ Right away, _sir!_ ” Ray hastily stuffed the money into his pocket. Fraser, not always Welsh’s favorite person, was edging toward the door. “See ya, Fraser.” Aless was safely cuffed to the chair. “Hold the fort, hey, Aless?” He shook his forefinger at her when she patted him on the rump.

Welsh looked past Ray as he entered the Lieutenant’s office, as if he expected a second person to enter behind him.

“Yes, Lieutenant!” said Ray.

“Has Constable Fraser gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I was afraid he was here to lure you into yet another of his odd adventures.”

“No, sir. No luring. Currently I am unlured.”

Welsh gave him one of those long looks, as if trying to decide whether or not Ray was being a smart ass. Then he grunted. “Good. And what have you to tell me about that high-profile young woman?”

“—Alessandra Willson,” Ray supplied helpfully. “She attempted to appropriate my wallet. Says she didn’t realize that that particular pocket was mine.” And, she’d been very complimentary about the pocket in question, though that wasn’t exactly relevant.

“Ah, yes. The mute pickpocket.”

“Not exactly mute, sir, just—eccentric in her forms of communication. I have reason to believe that she would like to share with us information on a credit card operation.”

“I see. And how will this speechless young woman share this information? Semaphores?”

Ray took a deep breath. “Aless has—ways of communicating.” That one of those ways had once involved Aless tracing words on Ray’s right thigh with a well-manicured fingernail, he thought wise to keep to himself.

“Good. Keep me apprised.”

“ _Yes_ , sir.” Ray edged toward the door.

Welsh let him get almost out the door. “And, Vecchio—”

“Yes, sir?”

“See if you can keep the Mountie out of our lives for a while.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Ray snorted. See if he could keep the Mountie out of their lives for a while. For pete’s sake—they weren’t joined at the hip! Ray was perfectly capable of keeping the Mountie out of their lives for entire days at a time. Keep the Mountie out—

Engrossed in grievance, he was almost to his desk before he realized that he was missing something.

“ _Hey!_ ” he shouted to the half-empty room. “Where’s my prisoner?” He fumbled in his back pocket. “And where’s my ten bucks?”

——

 _Some days_ , Benton Fraser thought as he stretched out on his bed, _the city of Chicago could be—difficult_. Something about a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police simply standing sentry in dress uniform outside the Canadian consulate seemed to inspire some infantile spirit in the city itself. Even two years in this noisy, crowded confusion hadn’t prepared him for a day like today. For the jack hammers throbbing steadily for three hours, five meters from his post outside the consulate. For the busload of female Japanese teenagers, apparently gymnasts on tour, giggling non-stop for twenty-six minutes while posing beside him. For the ice-cream-wielding toddler untying his boots while her parents argued two meters away—and then dropping her cherry ice cream on Fraser’s foot to melt.

Of course, Fraser mused now as he settled himself for sleep, Diefenbaker had profited from the last incident, leaping on the unauthorized treat. As sleep captured him, it drifted through his mind that, really, few things look more ridiculous than a man in dress uniform standing sternly at parade rest while a wolf licks ice cream off his untied boots.

A snort in Fraser’s ear woke him. It was Diefenbaker, who yipped and looked toward the door.

“Well, it’s no wonder you can’t sleep,” Fraser grumbled. “All that ice cream.” He looked at the clock: 2:30 a.m. Diefenbaker was moving restlessly in front of the apartment door. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to _walk_ you at this hour.”

 _No_ , Diefenbaker was telling him, _there’s something going on here that isn’t right_.

Fraser came fully awake in an instant and automatically pulled on jeans and shirt and boots. The wolf rarely exaggerated and never gave alarm without good reason.

The door open, Diefenbaker dashed down the hall. Fraser followed as quickly and quietly as he could, down flight after flight of stairs, losing sight of the wolf just before they reached the basement.

“Diefenbaker?” Fraser called in a low voice.

Silence answered him. Silence—but not quite. Water trickled somewhere nearby.

“Diefenbaker?” A little louder, though it made no sense to call a deaf wolf. Fraser caught a whiff of—was that _alcohol?_

Diefenbaker came running from some section of the labyrinthine basement; and just then, behind the wolf, there was a flash of white-green light and the _whoosh!_ of fire taking hold. Alcohol liquid white-green ignition means yellow phosphorus means arson, one part of Fraser’s brain registered as the rest of Fraser’s brain shouted, _This place will burn like a cord of fat wood; take control of the situation!_

Rescue; react—two words he’d drummed into himself since childhood.

Fraser’s hand reached automatically for the fire alarm. “Make sure everyone gets out!” he shouted to Diefenbaker, who streaked past him up the stairs.

Rescue started. Beside the fire alarm was a chemical extinguisher, which he yanked from its case. Control. Perhaps he could control the fire and give the other residents an extra measure of time.

He saw that it was hopeless when he saw the room where yellow phosphorus had reacted with air and ignited a pile of crumpled paper and plastic jugs of alcohol. Already, smoke hung so thick that he could barely see the flames. Heat poured from the room. Fraser coughed, tried to catch his breath.

On his belly on the floor now, under the pall of smoke, he could see two burning trailers of twisted paper leading from the ignition point to more small jugs. Hopeless to catch his breath, to find oxygen enough to do the required work. Never extinguish those trails of fire before they reach—

He had crawled halfway to the stairs when he heard the muffled _whump!_ of the first jug igniting. Then the second; and a roar as the fire seized the room. Flashover. Get out _now_.

The stairs were—where? He crawled. Sweat burned his eyes. Lungs strained for oxygen. His right hand was weighted down with something—the fire extinguisher. He let it go. The basement was black as a night without stars. His mind was on automatic, saying, _Stairs. Stairs. Stairs._

Then a cold nose snuffled his face. Diefenbaker. The thought of the wolf returning for him, of the wolf then dying in the fire, revived Fraser. He grabbed a handful of fur and crawled after the wolf, letting him lead him.

Stairs. Fraser’s hand caressed the first tread. Stairs. On his feet, the stairs would be the work of a moment; on his hands and knees under the smoke, the stairs were the work of a year.

Toiling up and up endlessly, seeking oxygen, trying to cough out the pollution of smoke. Diefenbaker licked his face, and Fraser went on.

Voices. A sharp _wuff!_ from Diefenbaker. Toiling up the stairs, lungs laboring. Voices.

And someone pulling him. “We gotcha, buddy,” filtered through a mask of some kind. Pulled. Carried. Carried past people shouting orders; carried past people crying in fear; carried out to where the cool breeze of the Chicago night was replaced by a mask full of what his lungs had been seeking.

He must have slept then; he opened his eyes to find a face with a long nose and large hazel eyes approximately twenty-five millimeters from his own. Ray. Ray Vecchio.

“So _this_ is what you do on your nights off,” Ray said, grinning down at him.

Fraser chuckled; the chuckle became a cough that racked his body as his lungs fought to expel the remaining smoke. Ray looked alarmed.

“Well, Constable Fraser, I see you’re back among us.” A pleasant-faced nurse came into the cubicle.

Emergency room. He was in an emergency room. Smoke. He pulled in oxygen from the mask over his nose and mouth.

The nurse smiled down at him. “Pulse strong and steady,” she said. “We like that in patients. The doctor will be in to see you in a minute.”

“Aw, gee,” Ray breathed when the nurse left. “Three a.m., and I gotta get a phone call about you rescuing five hundred people from a fire.” He rubbed his bristly cheek and peered at Fraser through eyes puffy with sleep.

“Did everyone get out?” Fraser asked, pulling away the oxygen mask just enough to enunciate the words. His voice sounded raw.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Where’s Diefenbaker?”

“Vet’s. He’ll be fine; just a little smoke. We can pick him up later today.”

“Is the fire out?”

“Cleaning up even as we speak.”

“It was arson, Ray.”

Now Ray very firmly took the mask from Fraser’s hand and settled it back over Fraser’s mouth and nose. “Tell us later,” he said.

He studied Fraser, frowning, for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “You’re _dirty! That’s_ why you look so strange! You’re actually dirty! First time! Son of a gun!” He looked elated.

Fraser looked at him. Dirty? First time? Whatever could Ray be talking about? Fraser closed his eyes. Dear as his friend was, Ray sometimes seemed to talk in his own code—some sort of American-city-detective idiom. Really—a little soot shouldn’t provoke _that_ kind of response. Ray must just be— happy that Fraser was alive.

Fraser opened his eyes to find Ray grinning down at him. Really—sometimes the man was just—well, silly.

——

Silly. Ray was feeling just—silly. Well, giddy, actually: it was a relief that Fraser was okay, after that heart-halting phone call. And it was a relief that everybody had gotten out of the burning apartment building in one piece. And it was a relief, Ray had to admit, that Dief would be okay; Ray didn’t ever again want to see that wolf—or any other wolf, for that matter—collapsed on the ground, chest heaving, zonked by smoke.

He took a swig of coffee, barely noting the taste and texture that told him the machine was on the fritz again. Giddy. Relief was most of it. And lack of sleep. And, yes, knowledge that the laws of the universe applied even to Mounties, that even Fraser would get sooty if life worked hard enough at it. But mostly relief.

He riffled the pages of the file lying on his desk. He should be working on it. He should be taking statements from those witnesses in the Sandoval case. He should be out tracking down witnesses to the Decker homicide. He should be following up those leads Alessandra Willson had given him after Javitz had hauled her back up to the squad room and Ray had given her a piece of his mind; funny how different she looked without the wig and makeup, with his good jacket on over her own clothes, but why on earth she’d thought she’d slip unnoticed out of the station house was beyond him.

Yes, Ray should be doing a lot of things. A whole lot of things. But he knew it was hopeless; he knew what he would end up doing; he knew what he’d be up to the minute a certain Mountie was sprung from the hospital.

He sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed the arson squad.

——

 _Baby_. Fraser glared at Diefenbaker, curled on Ray’s back seat and looking up at him with that innocence and arrogance that was only Diefenbaker’s. Big baby—making Ray carry him out from the veterinarian’s office. Ray had murmured solicitously into the wolf’s ear almost all the way to the car and had a bag of Diefenbaker’s favorite doughnuts ready. Fraser, however, was of sterner stuff and was having none of the wolf’s self-indulgent histrionics. And he would get away with none of this while they were spending the night at the Vecchios’ house. Fraser said as much in the look with which he answered Diefenbaker’s most appealing expression: _You’re an Arctic wolf, for god’s sake; act like one. You big baby_.

“Tomorrow Elaine’ll run those prints you took off that burned junkie. Probably been brought in for prostitution or worse some time. Kinda sloppy, nobody following up on trying to ID her before this. Jeez, that’s something I don’t ever want to have happen to me. Or anybody else, for that matter. Burning.” Ray shuddered.

The image of the silent, bandaged figure in the hospital bed flashed before Fraser’s eyes; he shook it away. Better not to dwell on what had almost happened to him and to Diefenbaker; if he were unable to focus, he would be no good to anyone.

“—so, Pinowski agreed to let us see the file; the squad’s got so many cases on now they really can’t handle much more. You sure you’re okay?” Ray’s hazel eyes narrowed in concern.

“Of course, Ray.” Just a little throat-clearing.

“Well—”

Amazing how much suspicion Ray could express in just a glance.

“—so, anyway, they’re working the scene today. Your statement helped a lot—that and the fact that you got the fire fighters on the scene so quickly. Damage, but not as bad as it could have been.”

As comfort, Fraser thought as the Buick Riviera pulled up to 221 West Racine, that was relative. His breath caught in shock at the sight of his home: windows and burglar bars broken out in the basement and on the first floor; front door hanging askew; everything covered in a thin coating of soot, and everywhere the stench of burning. The building superintendent, Dennis, stood on the sidewalk as close as he dared, looking at the building with a lugubrious expression on his long face.

“Whatta mess,” he said by way of greeting. “Mr. Taylor’s men were down here earlier; had big grins on their faces, like they was at a party. We may have some trouble here.”

Fraser’s heart skipped a beat. Only a few months ago he’d congratulated himself that the people in the building were safe from a rapacious landlord bent on razing the building for condominiums. The last four years of Dennis’s ten-year lease lay between the tenants and a miserable fate. But if the building were declared unsafe— He filed that thought to focus on later.

“Oh, good,” Ray said happily. “The doublemint twins.”

Fraser frowned. That the two women approaching them were not twins was obvious: the strawberry blonde was definitely taller than the blonde, and the women in no way resembled one another. They were dressed alike, however: in heavy coveralls with pockets lumpy with hammers and flashlights and notebooks and evidence bags, in boots and gloves and hard hats, and in a layer of wet ashes and soot that not only saturated their clothing, but smudged their faces. And they were alike in their enthusiasm at greeting Ray, each woman depositing a kiss on his cheek that left carbon.

“Fraser, I would like you to meet Detectives Dorothy Nevitte and Eliza Southfield.”

The blonde whacked him lightly with her hard hat.

“—Southworth. Eliza Southworth,” Ray amended.

“No wonder you never called again,” Detective Southworth said with a grin.

“Ladies, this is Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“I’m not here in an—official—” Fraser halted his automatic response to Ray’s introduction of him; perhaps he _was_ actually here in an official capacity, as this was his home.

“Oh, _you’re_ the guy,” Detective Nevitte said. “Nice work, finding the scene so quickly. And good try at putting it out yourself. But next time, keep your head down, okay? Inhale a lot less smoke that way.”

“I’ll—remember that.” Fraser paused, seeing the grin on Detective Nevitte’s face. Was she joking? Sometimes he couldn’t tell. “Actually, Diefenbaker should take the credit for getting us onto the scene so quickly.”

“Oh, yeah—” Detective Southworth said, looking at Detective Nevitte.

“—the wolf!” they chorused.

“Where is he?” asked Detective Nevitte.

“He’s—napping,” Fraser said firmly.

But Diefenbaker had a sixth sense when it came to those who wished to coo over him, and he frisked up to be fussed over by the arson team.

Fraser glared at him. Big ham.

“So, whatcha got?” Ray asked.

“Well, phosophorus, as Constable Fraser here already told us; and Emma sniffed out a couple other locations where accelerants had been been applied. We’ve had a couple of these recently; I’ll have to check the files.”

“Emma?” Ray said. “That dog is fifty if she’s a day. Aren’t you ever going to let that dog retire?”

“Emma has the best nose in the city!” Detective Southworth protested. “And she _loves_ her work!”

“In fact—” Detective Nevitte said, eyeing Diefenbaker, “I bet she and the wolf would have puppies that would be _great_ arson dogs.”

“No!” Fraser said. “Uh—no thank you,” he amended when the others looked at him. “I don’t think—” Ray appeared to be stifling a smile. “Would it be possible to enter my apartment and pick up a few—things?”

“Uh—sure!” Detective Southworth seemed to be trying not to grin. “We can only give you ten minutes, though. Just be careful on the stairs.”

He was careful on the stairs, though not as quick as he would have been some other day.

“Gee, I don’t like the sound of that wheezing,” Ray said.

“It’s not wheezing, Ray, it’s—” Well, it certainly wasn’t _wheezing_.

The empty building was depressingly silent, and the stench made him queasy. Fraser grabbed his knapsack, grabbed some clothing, grabbed the dress uniform he would have to wear to work. Did he have time to get any of his father’s journals?

He turned to find Ray standing at the door, arms loaded with the journals. “Minute and a half to go,” he said.

Fraser smiled as he followed Ray down the stairs. Really, sometimes the man was an absolute mind reader.

Outside, Fraser found himself stopping to frown at the front of the building. Graffiti. Something odd about the graffiti. “R 21:8”—something he hadn’t seen before.

“Huh!” said Ray. “Funny kind of tagging.”

“Oh, we see that kind of thing a lot,” said Detective Nevitte. “You see all kinds of tagging in this part of Chicago.”

Fraser frowned. It reminded him of something. No matter; the answer would come to him. But he hoped it would come to him soon: he sensed it was important.

——

Dinner was dinner, with Fraser only a couple times getting that caribou-caught-in-the-headlights look that meant he was going into Vecchio-family-dinner-conversation overload. And Vecchio-family-dinner overload, Ray realized: Ma urged on him seconds and thirds and fourths of everything, giving him her “Don’t you _like_ it?” routine when he tried to refuse. Frannie eyeing him like she was a wolf and he was a donut didn’t help.

After dinner, Fraser practically dragged Dief out for a walk that was probably three times longer than usual; but, hey, it was nice night to walk. Ray made sure they saw the whole neighborhood, showing off the old hangouts and the old dives; by the time they got back, the kids were in bed and Frannie was on her date.

Then Fraser went up to shave, and after about an hour Ray looked through the open door of his room to find him stretched out on the floor, reading, with Dief snoozing beside him. He didn’t disturb them; he could understand a need to get away. Ray sometimes sympathized with the perp he’d arrested who, asked why he’d gunned down the father, two cousins, three siblings, and an aunt with whom he’d been living, had explained plaintively, “I just wanted the baffroom all to masseff.”

Bedtime, and Ma fussed before she finally gave in to Fraser’s desire to bunk on the floor. Ray returned from his nightly check of the house to find the Mountie staring through the window, book open on his chest.

“Comfy?” Ray asked, locking up his gun.

“Oh, yes!” Fraser said too brightly. “Very comfortable! Thank you!”

Ray lay back in bed, gratefully. “You wouldn’t prefer the back yard, would you?” he asked facetiously.

“Well—” Ray opened his eyes to find Fraser actually getting up. “—if it would be more convenient—” Jeans and shirt were donned in an instant, and blanket and pillow tucked themselves under Fraser’s arm.

Fraser stopped at the door and looked back, as if it was suddenly dawning on him that Ray might have been joking.

Mounties. Ray curved his mouth into a huge smile. “Pleasant dreams!” he said.

“Thank you!” said Fraser. “Diefenbaker—come!”

For once, Dief came when he was called, and Ray turned onto his side as the door of the room closed. He hoped Frannie didn’t find out where Fraser was sleeping that night; Fraser had had enough fires of various kinds for one day.

——

The smell of the fire rose around him, trapped in his uniform. It would be, until he could get to the dry cleaner.

Fraser found comfort in the familiar posture. Eyes locked straight ahead; back straight, hands clasped behind it; weight distributed evenly; calf muscles tensing and easing in unconscious rhythm to keep the blood from pooling in the feet. Body settled in the familiar discipline.

Now a chance for the mind to work, undistracted. Mind and body almost disengaged. Automatically, he watched those passing near the consulate, examining them and their behavior for possible criminal intent.

The rest of his mind worked on the problem of the graffiti, as it had since early that morning, when the light from the full moon had shone directly into his face and awakened him.

It would come to him. It would take some time, but the answer would come to him eventually.

——

Arson photos. When he raised his eyes to the ceiling, he saw arson photos. When he closed his eyes, he saw arson photos. Ray had been at it since dawn, coming in way early after he’d awakened with the moon flooding through his bedroom window and found that graffiti occupying the part of his brain that was supposed to be trying to get back to sleep.

For a while, Fraser had sat there with him, going through file after file after file with a swift efficiency that Ray could only envy. He himself had no idea what he was looking for, tended to catch himself dwelling on little details: the char pattern on antique wallpaper; the tiny Adidas sneaker beneath a smoke-clouded wall outlet; the way a plastic jug had melted into a puddle shaped like Florida.

Ray rubbed sandy eyes and went out to kick the coffee machine into submission. That graffiti. Something about that graffiti. He’d seen it in several of the photos.

“Yes, ma’am, I understand your need to plan ahead for the big event,” Huey was saying into the phone. “After all, the new millennium is just a few years away. Just give us a call when the spaceship picks you up. Yes, of _course_ someone will water your plants.”

Back at his desk, Ray sorted out the folders with pictures showing the odd tagging, put them in chronological order, and went through them again. Five in a cluster a month ago; three this week.

“I 5:24,” a month ago on the wall of a storefront church on North Washington.

“L 12:49,” on a warehouse on East Central.

“D 32:22,” on a mom and pop grocery store in the 300 block of West Cicero.

“I 66:15,” on the sidewalk outside an abandoned store on East Kimball.

“T 2 1:8,” at a New Age shop on North Kedzie.

“M 3:10,” three nights ago, on an abandoned women’s clinic in the 900 block of East Cermak.

“J 2:3,” also three nights before, at a junkie jungle on East Cross where an addict had been pretty badly burned.

And “R 21:8,” at Fraser’s.

Odd way of tagging: too many initials.

He spread the photos out on his desk. He looked at them. He looked at them.

——

Too many initials to be the usual sort of tagging. Fraser had noticed similar graffiti in a few files he’d looked at with Ray. “L.” “T.” “J.” “R.” A group of vandals?

——

No—not a group. The colons were what bothered Ray. Something about the numbers and those colons. They looked—

——

—familiar. Numbers before and after a colon. Fraser thought about where he had seen numbers before and after a colon. Page numbers in a list of articles?

——

No—not page numbers. That “T 2 1:8” bothered Ray. It didn’t look right. He buried his face in his hands. Was he reading too much into spacing? Into punctuation? But his mind wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t be tagging; no reason to spray paint page numbers, even if they had looked right. Numbers before and after a colon, like—like—like verses—

——

—Bible verses. And initial—

——

—the book. Book, chapter, colon, verse.

Ray stared at the photos. The idea was so intriguing, felt so right, that he found himself reluctant to move, to investigate further and risk disproving it.

But he couldn’t just sit here. Bible. He needed a Bible.

Ray pushed back from his desk and looked around the squad room. “Elaine!” he called.

When he told the civilian aide what he wanted, he got that look she often gave him—the one where she seemed to suspect he was sending her on a snipe hunt.

But she found him a Bible. In Jack Huey’s desk.

Elaine shrugged, and Ray stifled a grin. It was sweet: Huey with the word of God so close to hand.

Ray sat at his desk and flipped to the front of the paper-covered volume. King James. With an alphabetical list of the books.

Only one book began with the letter “I.” His hands shook as he turned to the appropriate page, to the chapter, to the verse.

“I 5:24.” The storefront church.

“Therefore as the fire devoureth the stubble, and the flame consumeth the chaff, _so_ their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom shall go up as dust: because they have cast away the law of the Lord of hosts, and despised the word of the Holy One of Israel.” Isaiah 5:24.

Ray sat back and filled his lungs with sweet Chicago air. Fire. Flame. _Bin_ -go.

——

Fire. Verses full of flame and fire. Of _course_.

Fraser a deep breath and relaxed. Both the breath and the relaxation were imperceptible to the untrained eye, but he felt better than he’d felt in two days.

——

By 4:15, Ray had decoded the rest of the graffiti. A collection of fire and flame and blazing inferno that, in some cases, was almost appropriate:

“L 12:49,” the warehouse: “I am come to send fire on the earth.”

“D 32:22,” the grocery store: “For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains.”

“I 66:15,” the abandoned store: “For, behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.”

“T 2 1:8,” the New Age shop: “ … in flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God … ”

“M 3:10,” the clinic site: “And now also the axe is laid unto the root of the trees: therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”

“J 2:3,” the junkie jungle: “A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth: the land _is_ as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.”

And “R 21:8,” Fraser’s apartment building:

“ ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death,’ ” Ray read aloud to Fraser, striding up to Ray’s desk. He grinned up at the Mountie. “So, Benny, which of those are you?”

——

“Bible verses.” Leftenant Welsh sat back in his chair. “Unique.”

“Actually, leftenant, there have been a number of cases in which—” Fraser silenced himself when he saw the expression in the leftenant’s eyes. Perhaps later.

“One doesn’t expect this level of—spiritual fervor among Chicago arsonists,” Welsh went on, as if Fraser hadn’t spoken. “In fact, one doesn’t expect this level of _literacy_ among Chicago arsonists.”

“Tell him about the moon.” Ray was elbowing Fraser.

“Ah. Yes. Perhaps by accident, the timing of these arsons appears to coincide with the dates of the full moon,” Fraser explained. “Judging from the five incidents from last month and the three from this which we feel we can definitely credit to this particular—”

“Two each night,” Ray broke in, “over the five nights when the moon is at the fullest.”

“Told you so,” Detective Nevitte said to Detective Southworth.

“This is one perp; this is not every arsonist in Chicago,” Detective Southworth replied. Some argument seemed to be going on here to which Fraser was not privy.

A look from Welsh silenced them. “So there should have been a second fire the night Constable Fraser’s building was hit. And there should have been two last night.”

Detective Nevitte opened a folder. “The night of the fire on Racine, there was a fire at a reputed gang hangout where similar graffiti was painted. Another verse from Revelations: ‘And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them.’ ”

“Appropriate,” commented the leftenant.

“We can identify only one possibility from last night, a known crack house where the fire didn’t get properly started. Proverbs, this time: ‘Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?’ However, there were two other fires in wooden structures which burned completely. Perhaps our arsonist targeted one of them.”

“That’s three nights down and two to go,” Welsh said. “Do we have a suspect?”

“We picked up a beautiful set of prints at the site where the junkie was injured,” said Detective Southworth. “We haven’t matched it with any known arsonist. However, we ran the prints through AFIS and confirmed a match. One Lemuel Zenk, thirty-two, charged with assault on a street preacher two years ago. Preacher elected not to press charges.”

“And this is a firm identification.”

“Exact on fourteen points.”

Welsh grunted. “And what does Mr. Zenk have to say for himself?”

Suddenly, the three detectives seemed to find great interest in every object in Welsh’s office but the leftenant himself. Fraser cleared his throat.

“Well, you see, leftenant,” he said, “Mr. Zenk appears to have no known current—address—”

He felt his gaze caught and held by Welsh’s eyes, which looked as ancient and sorrowful as the eyes of a turtle. The leftenant regarded him for a moment, then turned his attention to the other three.

“And what did Lieutenant Pinowski say about this turn of evidence?”

Detective Nevitte hunched her shoulders. “He kinda got this— _look_ on his face … ”

“I see. So what you’re saying is that we have a suspect we cannot find, who has no priors in this particular type of crime and no apparent motive, and who may in all innocence have left his prints at the crime scene; and we have only two nights before our perpetrator goes underground for another month.”

Silence.

“That—pretty much sums it up, sir,” said Ray.

Silence.

“Evidence. We need evidence,” said Welsh.

“Yes, sir,” said Ray.

Silence.

“Go and find some,” Welsh said as slowly and clearly as if he were speaking to small children.

Evidence. Detectives Nevitte and Southworth vanished into the arson squad’s office to reference and cross-reference and index and cross-index the information in the computer files until, as Detective Nevitte put it, either the computer told them everything or it fried itself. Their glee at either prospect seemed equal.

But when Ray heard Fraser’s idea for their own focus, his dismay was—

“ _No!_ ” he said. “ _What?_ No! You gotta be— You can’t be serious!”

But even he had to bow to reason—and to a list of the contents of the dumpster in the alley shared by the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace and the building where Zenk’s prints had been found. The usual paper and boxes and meat trimmings; and also—Fraser verified at the site over Ray’s protests that this was dis _gusting_ , there were all those _germs_ —leftover chicken, ribs, vegetables, and bread, all placed at the top of the bin and all carefully wrapped.

The owner of the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace seemed hot, exhausted, and extremely put out. “Yeah, _I_ leave that stuff there for them homeless people,” she said. “That against the law? You got a warrant?”

“No, but we can get one.” Ray, as usual, was ready to spring into action on the side of the law. “Creating an attractive nuisance. How does that grab ya?”

“Look—I just put it out there. ’Cause it’s really garbage. What happens to it after that ain’t up to me. They get it, fine. They don’t get it, fine. People got their own route, their own schedule, come through here, pick up what they want to eat, then the garbage hauler come through and get the rest. All I know is, I sleep fine at night, ’cause I know I done my best by them.”

“You know, they got people who pick up restaurant leftovers every night and take ’em to shelters to distribute.”

“Yeah,” said the woman, “but these people I feed, they in _my_ neighborhood.” She drew herself up, looking as determined as Boadicea leading the Iceni against the Romans, as indomitable as Fraser’s own grandmother confronting a book vandal. “That makes ’em _my_ homeless. And I take care of my own. Them other people, they just ain’t mine.”

 _Well put_ , thought Fraser.

——

 _What was it about stakeouts_ , Ray thought, _that brought out the worst in Chicago weather?_ Days and days of 70 degrees—and now when he had to just sit in a car all night with Fraser, spring plays coy and lets winter slip back in. And him without his gloves.

He cupped his hands over the lukewarm cup of coffee on the dashboard of the Riv, trying to pretend that there was heat enough to warm them, and glanced irritatedly at Fraser. Look at him, sitting there in his leather jacket, looking as toasty as if there was a fire under the seat. Probably felt that way, given his standards.

Ray sighed, crossed his arms to warm his hands under them, noticed something, and sighed again. His breath drifted in a little cloud. Perfect. Sitting here waiting for whatever homeless person liked to wander down this alley at around 2 a.m. and eat out of the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace dumpster, on the off chance they might have seen something three nights ago. Sitting here perfectly still on a night so cold you could see your breath. Just perfect.

In the back seat, Dief put his muzzle out the slightly rolled-down window and whuffled the air. Geesh—even the wolf had a fur coat to keep him warm.

Just as Ray was about to suggest they fire up the heater, Dief wuffed, and Fraser pointed down the dim alley. “There.”

The figure hardly looked human as it shuffled along in the darkness, pushing a shopping cart. Something on her clothing glittered in the light of the full moon. Ray’s heart sank. How could they ever get anything coherent out of that shambling bundle of rags? Only in Fraser’s world would she be any use as a witness.

The woman didn’t seem to notice them as they walked toward her, Dief padding ahead of them through the shadows. The stench of the burned building seemed stronger in the chilly night.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Fraser said.

She was trudging on, oblivious. Wrapped over her head and around her shoulders was some sort of shawl with big spangles that caught the cool light of the moon, the warm light of an amber streetlight. Her lips moved ceaselessly; Ray strained, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Fraser stepped in front of the shopping cart. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

She stopped then and peered at them, eyes bleary under the sequins on the shawl. “Zwoop, zwoop, zwoop!” she cried, her hands circling in the air.

 _Oh, great_ , thought Ray. _This is gonna be real informative_.

But Fraser was smiling at her, and Ray could see a struggle in her face as she looked in turn at him and Fraser.

“Michael,” she said thickly, touching Ray’s arm.

“Gabriel,” she said, touching Fraser. “An-gel. Zwoop, zwoop, zwoop, zwoop, zwoop!” Her circling hands rose like grubby wings.

Pretty shabby angel, Ray thought ruefully. Bathed in the light of pale silver and paler gold, under the halo of the brim of the Mountie hat, Fraser was smiling at the woman, warmly and—Ray thought—expectantly.

“Did you see this building burn?” he asked.

Her face twisted. “Satan,” she said. To Ray’s surprise, she was clutching his sleeve. “Satan, satan, satan, satan!”

He tried not to show his distaste as he disengaged her hand. The stink that radiated from her sparkling rags was almost worse than the building.

“We’ll find him,” Fraser said gently. “Can you help us?”

Her bleary eyes fixed on him. “Waited.” She dug in the cart and pulled out a tiny book. She handed it to Fraser. “God say wait.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Gabriel,” she told Fraser. “Michael,” she informed Ray; and she was pushing her cart on down the alley.

Ray took out his handkerchief and spread it to take the book from Fraser. Probably useless, fingerprint-wise, but no sense taking chances. Look closer in the car.

They started back for the Riv.

“Ray,” Fraser said, “you’re more familiar with angel lore than am I. I know that Michael led the angels who defeated Satan and his army, but refresh my memory about Gabriel.”

“Gabriel announced things. Explained what was goin’ on.” Ray smiled to himself: he got to be the angel who looked out after cops because he’d make a good cop himself, but Fraser—well, Fraser got to be the pontificating angel. Nothing on the Mountie’s face betrayed that he thought there was anything humorous about that, but Ray found himself grinning as he got into the car.

“So, basically I’m the angel who gets the bad guy, while you’re the angel who tells people Inuit stories,” he went on. “She’s more with it than I thought.”

Fraser opened his mouth to say something, but Ray quickly turned on the dome light in the Riv to examine their find. It was a little Bible, one of those small New Testaments the Gideons sometimes handed out on the sidewalk. This one was well thumbed, the gilt on its green cover tarnished.

A card was tucked inside, and Ray shook the book open so they could read it under the dome light. It was a business card. They saw the back first; on it was written a list of addresses. Ray shook the card over so they could see the front.

“Taylor Enterprises,” it read.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Ray said.

——

“I have all sorts of business dealings,” said John Taylor. “My card could have come into that woman’s possession any number of ways.” He looked at Fraser. “You people are very fortunate; I’ve been told by the building inspector that that particular property is still quite sound. A little work, and you all can move right back in.” His voice sounded hearty, but his eyes were calculating the loss.

“Good!” said Ray. “I’d hate to see such a fine old Chicago landmark razed for condominiums.” Fraser looked sharply at him, knowing what Ray really thought of the building and its inhabitants; “mutants” was one of the nicer words he had used to describe Fraser’s neighbors. Ray’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were hard as granite.

Fraser studied Mr. Taylor’s face as Ray flipped a few pages on his small notebook. Annoyance, quickly smoothed over.

“Would you happen to be acquainted with a—” Ray flipped a few more pages, as if finding his notes. “—Lemuel Zenk?”

An almost imperceptible start, covered by a backward movement, as if Mr. Taylor’s desk chair had suddenly lurched back.

“I know many people,” Mr. Taylor said smoothly. “Zenk—may be one of them. I can’t be certain.”

“One more thing,” said Ray. “Do you own the property at—” He flipped through more pages. “—116 Nassau?”

A lift of the eyebrows; a contemptuous quirk of the lips. “Detective Vecchio, I—can’t keep in mind _every_ piece of property this corporation owns. I’m sure your own records can tell you whether or not I own that particular property.”

Ray smiled at him. “Oh, I’m sure they will.”

“Well, if that’s it.” Mr. Taylor rose, signalling the end of the interview.

“I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” Ray was saying, with that oily smile that reminded Fraser of Diefenbaker protesting that that bag of Cheezydoodles had just fallen right open in front of him.

“He’s lying,” Fraser and Ray told each other the instant they stepped out of the office.

Yes, thought Fraser. But how did they prove it?

——

 _Ah, yes, spring in Chicago_ , Ray thought. Rain trickled down his back, dripped off the end of his nose. He puffed out a breath and watched the cloud drift up, past the light in the alley. Surely, with no moon to shine on him, this guy would lay low.

But his cop’s mind told him different. This guy wouldn’t lay low; this guy had too much of a jones for starting these fires. Or earning money—the evidence pointed in both directions. Evidence. Nothing on prints on the business card yet: ninhydrin took twenty-four hours to develop prints; they’d know what they had tomorrow. He looked at his watch. Today. They’d know what they had today. Ah, jeez, why couldn’t arsonists keep decent hours?

Ray sauntered down the alley, eyes alert for movement in the shadows. Two untorched addresses on the business card, both very definitely owned by John Taylor. The factory at 519 Main had been abandoned years ago; Nevitte and Sager had it covered. That 116 Nassau was now an all-night soup kitchen for down-and-outers probably wouldn’t stop Taylor from having it torched; the site was, like most of the others burned by their perp, prime real estate just waiting to be rebuilt on.

Gee, Nevitte and Southworth had looked happy, taking a break from stomping that poor computer into submission: they’d come up with a half-dozen owners of the assorted properties in question, but they were convinced that at least some of these names were dummy corporations. Even now, Southworth was back at the station, glaring at the computer screen while her fingers flickered over the keyboard. He’d forgotten how sexy it could be when she was concentrating that hard on a case; all that competence and intensity were—well—invigorating. Maybe he’d go back to the station later and, well, kind of help her a little. The least he could do.

The crackle of the radio at his side. Ray reached for it. “Yeah?”

“It is now 41 degrees out there,” Huey’s rich bass said cheerfully. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, Huey.” Yes, thank you, Mr. Weatherman, sitting in your nice, warm, dry car, probably drinking hot coffee.

Ray found an alcove, stepped into it, hoping for shelter, stepped right back out when a leaky gutter poured water down the side of his leg. The radio crackled again. “Yeah?” If it was another weather report, he was going to drop a certain detective into the Chicago River, which was probably above 41 degrees, but which would feel far colder.

Benny, inside. “Ray, Diefenbaker’s coming out to—to—to—”

“Roger that. I’ll keep an eye out for him.” Ray grinned. Mounties. Fraser could sniff dog piddle; he could taste dog piddle; but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to actually _say_ “dog piddle.” He grinned again, listening to Huey crack up over the radio. Hey, good—rain was letting up.

Light-colored wolf in a dark alley—easy to spot, even on a night like this. “Hey, Dief,” Ray said as the wolf trotted past him.

Ray strolled to the corner of the building, peering around it to the back exit. Jeez, this place felt as vulnerable as a nun in a gang fight. Nuns. He wished they’d been able to get them to close up for the night, but Sister Mary Agnes had given them that nun look that told them she had no intention of closing her soup kitchen on a night like this; they’d just better get their act together and keep it from burning down. She also apprised her workers of the situation; they were on the alert for anything suspicious.

Rain definitely stopped. Maybe the weather would give them a brea—

When the fire alarm went off, Ray literally jumped. He ran for the closest door, radio to his lips. “Benny! Benny! Talk to me! What’s going on?”

What was going on was that people were pouring out of every exit faster than he could keep track of them. Most were patrons of the soup kitchen, loping off into the darkness in all directions. If their man was among them, he was as good as gone.

He pushed through the crowd, clutching the radio. “Benny! Benny! Talk to me!”

He was at the bottom of a stair well. Sister Mary Agnes and two small nuns were hustling along a huge woman who apparently had gone over the edge; eyes closed, she was wailing in tandem with the fire alarm.

Ray pocketed the radio—too much noise to hear anything. He dashed up the stairs and into the dining area, where some patrons were shuffling from table to table, filling their pockets with abandoned food. “Hey, get outta here! There’s a fire here! Get out!” Jeez—these people had _no_ sense of self-preservation.

Front entrance, where Huey looked disgusted as he shooed out terrified people with a toothless old man clinging to his arm.

Basement. Benny’d gone to the basement. Ray had seen stairs _up_ , but where were the stairs _down?_

Smoke flavored the air now. Ray could see it seeping in under the kitchen doors. The kitchen was on fire. He took a deep breath and dropped to the floor, preparing himself for the plunge in. Please don’t let Benny be in there.

The door opened before he reached it, and a wall of smoke poured out. Convulsed with coughing, Ray almost missed seeing the figure crawling out.

Benny. The smoke pouring from the kitchen seemed limitless. Ray reached out blindly, grabbing clothing. He hauled. Sheez, the guy was heavy. He hauled again.

And realized that he was hauling on not only Benny, but the guy Benny was trying to drag out. The Mountie was helpless with coughing, but he still had hold of his man.

Ray bent to his work, straining to see through the smoke. Appalling how quickly smoke could build up; appalling how quickly it could overcome a person. He seemed to be coughing more than he was crawling.

And then there was movement next to him, and Huey was there, handkerchief over his nose and mouth, gripping Benny with one hand and the other guy with the other, and dragging them into the capable hands of the fire fighters making for the kitchen.

Ray climbed to his feet, grateful for the steadying hand of a fire fighter. Out. He just wanted out.

“Candle,” Fraser was gasping to Huey when Ray stumbled outside. The Mountie looked pretty good for somebody gulping oxygen from a mask. “And rags soaked in cooking oil. Apparently he placed the rags earlier at the bottom of an old laundry chute. Then he simply dropped the lighted candle down the chute at the appropriate moment.”

Damn. The perp had been right there on the scene, and they’d been guarding him like he was the crown jewels. And the fire started anyway. And, double damn, there was Sister Mary Agnes charging over like a ballistic missile going for its target.

“Where’s Diefenbaker?” Benny asked.

Aw, nuts; aw, no. But suddenly there was a white streak of wolf, and Dief was snuffling at Fraser. The wolf yipped at him.

“You did?” said Fraser. “Are you sure?”

Another yip. Ray looked at Huey, who rolled his eyes.

“Diefenbaker identified the perpetrator—probably the scent of candle wax on his hands gave him away. He can track him.”

“Well, let’s get on it!”

Ray determinedly turned his back on the approaching Sister Mary Agnes and hesitated. Under the layer of soot, Fraser was pale. But when he removed the oxygen mask and stood, his face showed the usual determination.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

Fraser cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. He cleared his throat again. Oh, yeah— _he_ was okay. “Diefenbaker! Track!”

And the wolf was off, and they were following. “Slow down!” Ray called to Dief, who looked back and did just that, for a change. Still, the pace was a bit of a stretch for someone who’d inhaled all that smoke. But Fraser was keeping up, and Ray kept an eye on him.

The wolf trotted ahead of Fraser and Ray, never faltering. Down rain-wet streets where light shimmered on the shining pavement. Past doorways where an occasional figure slumped. Past junkers and burned-out cars; past a group of young men trading laughter and lies around a drum of burning crate slats; past a party that had spilled out into the street. Dampness put a halo around the streetlights and turned Fraser’s coughs into clouds of smoke.

Ray was glad when Dief stopped near a clunker of a van and looked back. Fraser stopped and bent, hands on his knees, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

The Mountie nodded rapidly, determinedly. Oh, yeah— _he_ was okay. Just as soon as Ray got him to a hospital.

The van was idling at a stop light. Was the perp in there? Dief had turned back and was looking at them. Ray took a deep breath. Only one way to find out.

Ray checked his gun, reholstered it, pulled out his badge. “I’ll take care of this,” he said to Fraser.

The Mountie nodded rapidly, still wheezing. “Diefenbaker will help you.”

Ray looked sharply at him, looked at Dief. Oh, yeah—the wolf will help. In Ray’s next life, the wolf will help. “Sure,” he said.

The walk to the van seemed the longest of Ray’s life. All his senses were trained on the van, watching for movement. He flicked a glance at the traffic light, willing it to stay red. Get a move on, Vecchio. Even in Chicago traffic lights don’t stay red forever.

Ray strode up to the cab of the van, hand on his gun, badge in the other hand. He took a deep breath as he came up to the driver’s window.

“Police, sir,” he said to the figure. “Would you please turn off the vehicle?” Oh, doitdoitdoitdoit; don’t make this hard.

The face that turned to him was startlingly pale, startingly blank. But the man obeyed.

“Would you please step out of the vehicle, sir?” Aw, jeez; Ray’s heart was in his throat.

Hesitation; and obedience. Ray felt limp.

“Sir, I have reason to believe you may have been involved in the commission of a crime. I am taking you down to the station now for questioning.”

“The heavens shall pass away with a great noise,” the man said conversationally, to Ray and to Fraser, who had just come up, “and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.”

“Ah,” said Fraser. There didn’t seem to be much more to say.

Now—do this right: since he would be arrested after questioning, tell him his noncustodial rights. As Ray fumbled for the card to make sure he got the warning right, he saw the worn Bible lying in the van’s passenger’s seat, and a little bubble of happiness floated up inside him.

 _Got_ ya!

——

Or, perhaps not. As Fraser listened to States Attorney Louise St. Laurent, lead seemed to settle in his stomach and his spirits. Bit by logical bit, she carefully dismantled their case: circumstantial evidence, she kept emphasizing; arresting Mr. Zenk would be a waste of time because the entire case against Mr. Zenk was built with circumstantial evidence.

Yes, a _wolf_ had taken them to Mr. Zenk’s vehicle, but what proof did they have of a connection with the fire at 116 Nassau? Well, Detective Vecchio, a man who lived in his van could be considered homeless; and since 116 Nassau was a soup kitchen for the homeless, was it stretching things _too_ far to believe that a homeless man might go there for a meal? Detective Vecchio, what Mr. Zenk was _doing_ there at the time the fire started was having a hot supper on a cold night—just like the twenty-odd other people there at that hour. Did he and—well, why _exactly_ had Constable Fraser been at the scene? It was unfortunate that his home had been the site of a fire, but that didn’t make him a member of the Chicago Police Department. In any event, did Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser follow any others that night? She didn’t think so.

And had they determined a _motive?_ Mr. Zenk had no priors for arson. Well, Detective Vecchio, what evidence did they _have_ that Mr. Zenk was a “religious nut”? What graffiti? Yes, and how had they proved that Mr. Zenk had left that graffiti? Since they had no probable cause to actually _arrest_ Mr. Zenk, there would be no search of the van; besides, spray paint was too generic to be matched. No, Detective Vecchio, she was _not_ taking pleasure in poking holes in their case. There shouldn’t have _been_ any holes in their case—at least not this many.

Let’s see—motive. She understood that several of the burned buildings hadn’t been insured, which was unusual in an arson-for-hire case. Why, Detective Southworth, it _was_ nice that the owners of so many of those sites were planning to build profitable establishments on the sites. Did she mean to imply a connection between these businessmen and the fires? How was she prepared to prove such a connection? Well, dummy corporations weren’t actually illegal, were they? And they still didn’t prove a connection. In fact, the detectives might wish to refrain from implying any connection, as the city of Chicago wouldn’t enjoy defending a slander suit.

Yes, that was a nice set of prints at the fire scene on East Cross. How exactly did they prove that those prints had been left by the arsonist? Well? Okay, Detective Vecchio, how exactly did they prove that the prints had been left at the time of the fire? Well?

What evidence did they have that that business card actually had come from the fire scene? Yes, well, Detective Vecchio, the only witness to that was a homeless woman who thought they were— was it _angels_ , Detective Vecchio?

Yes, ninhydrin had indeed revealed the presence of Mr. Zenk’s fingerprints on the business card, but since the card couldn’t be linked to the arson itself, this was academic. Well, Detective Vecchio, a list of addresses did not consitute real evidence, even if they were addresses of arson sites. It consituted circumstantial evidence. And, Detective Vecchio, she wasn’t eager to participate in the field day a defense attorney would have with such circumstantial evidence.

And circumstantial evidence appeared to be all they had, since Mr. Zenk wasn’t being very forthcoming, was he?

 _No, he wasn’t_ , Fraser thought, studying his boots. Mr. Zenk was, in fact, proving remarkably _un_ forthcoming. Silent after Ray had told him of his right to remain silent, of the fact that anything he said may be used against him, of his right to leave any time he desired; silent ever since. Seated in the interview room, Zenk had remained unresponsive to Ray’s amiability, to Detective Nevitte’s coddling, to Ray’s swallowed frustration, to Detective Southworth’s fuming, to Ray’s evident irritation, to Detective Huey’s geniality, to Ray’s hot fury.

Fraser had studied Zenk through the one-way glass, watching for one of the four signs that the man was faking his blankness, chilled that those signs weren’t evident. There was something— _eerie_ in the pale, empty face, in the pale blue eyes staring at the table, the wall, the parade of questioning detectives. Zenk seemed—

“Disconnected,” Fraser said to Ray after the detective’s fury had failed to get Zenk to communicate.

“ _I’ll_ disconnect him,” Ray muttered back.

“No, Ray, I think Mr. Zenk has simply—disconnected himself from the situation.”

“So he _is_ faking!”

“Well— Not as _such_. He simply—doesn’t care what’s going on around him. Either very clever or—” Fraser searched for the suitable term.

“—psycho,” Ray provided.

“Well, I’m not sure _psychotic_ exactly—”

“Psycho.”

“Well, Ray—”

“Psycho, Fraser. He’s psycho. Or maybe—maybe he’s really, really stupid.”

“Stupidity hadn’t actually occurred to me.” Intriguing, however. Perhaps someone had written on the subject.

“So stupid nothing registers.” Ray shook his head. “Nah—that doesn’t make sense. Somebody that stupid doesn’t come up with an arson pattern this complicated. Psycho. I’m going with psycho.”

“Either way, Ray, since Mr. Zenk has simply been brought in for questioning, all he has to do is leave.”

Which Mr. Zenk quietly did at 12:06 p.m., simply rising and walking out of the interview room.

“Must be lunchtime,” Leftenant Welsh commented. Fraser saw him go into his office and close the door, no doubt to indulge in cold cuts.

“Chocolate,” Detective Southworth said in a strangled voice as she went through the squad room.

“Junior Mints,” Detective Nevitte said between her teeth as she started for her office.

“Doughnuts,” said Detective Huey, putting on his coat. “Lots of ’em.”

“Wall pounding,” Detective Vecchio did _not_ say, but should have: he thumped the wall outside the interview room, thwacked the wall on the stairway, pounded the wall outside of booking, and bruised the side of his fist against the side of the brick building itself. The roof of his Buick Riviera took some slams, as did the dashboard after Ray got behind the wheel.

“ _Had_ him!” Ray said, punctuating his words with his fist. “We _had_ him, _had_ him, _had_ him!”

Fraser took a deep breath, then another. And another. He understood the lure of sugar and cocoa, the temptation of starch and fat, the exhiliration of pounding things. He took another deep breath. He would handle stress his way. Deep breath.

“I wish you’d quit wheezing,” Ray said in a distracted voice.

“I’m _not_ wheezing.” Then, at a look from Ray, “Well, I’m not.”

It wasn’t _wheezing_ ; it was just—just deep breathing, deep, cleansing breaths, meant to relax him and to clear out as much soot as practicable in this polluted atmosphere. Fraser had a sudden flash of yearning for Tuktoyaktuk, for Reindeer Station, even for Moosejaw—for some place where people didn’t burn other people’s homes for prophecy or for profit. He took another cleansing breath.

“Aw, jeez,” Ray’s voice was strangled.

Fraser looked at him, took the piece of paper he was holding out. It was a printout Elaine had warily handed the detective on his way out of the squad room. Identification of the young woman who had been burned.

Fraser stared at the printout in shock, trying to correlate the wasted figure he’d seen in the hospital bed with the young prostitute whom the Chicago police had arrested two years before: Ophallia Angille; age 22. In the United States on a student visa—long expired.

From Inuvik, the Northwest Territories. From home.

Deported once, she had come back over the border, back to the city which already had begun to eat her soul.

“Hospital first?” Ray asked. “Or consulate?”

Fraser looked at him for a minute. “Consulate. Thank you, Ray.”

He settled back. Consulate first, where he would do what he could for her: start the process whereby Canada would claim her lost child.

——

Ray winced as he looked at the figure in the bed, swathed in bandages of every possible description and connected to machines he didn’t even want to know what they were used for. Young. Damn—she looked so _young_. The smell of burned skin came to him under the smell of medicine and antiseptic, and he swallowed hard. Burning. He shuddered.

“The consulate is making contact with her family,” Fraser was saying to the doctor.

“It’s nice to have a name for her,” the doctor murmured back. “She seems to have had a tough time of it. Walking pharmaceutical experiment; you name it, she had it in her. Third degree burns on her arms and legs and the left side of her face. Not fatal. But this young lady is gonna have a very bad time when she comes out.”

“She’s been unconscious the whole time?” Ray asked.

“Off and on. We’ve—been encouraging her to stay unconscious.” She didn’t say more, but Ray could fill in the rest.

“Does she speak?” asked Fraser.

“She says ‘flower,’ ” answered a nurse. “And ‘tree.’ ‘Flower’ and ‘tree’—and ‘hurt.’ That’s all she says.”

Ray felt his throat constrict. Jeez, what a universe where you get ID’d because you’d broken the law. What a universe where you crawl inside some drug so far it takes a fire to drag you back out and get you a second chance. What a universe.

“Sometimes I hate this job,” he said to Fraser as they got into the Riv.

“You do your best, Ray.”

“Sometimes my best just ain’t good enough.”

“And oftentimes it is, Ray.”

Well— “We shoulda had a doctor listen to that wheezing of yours.”

“It’s not wheezing, Ray. It’s just deep breathing. And a little cough.”

Easier to twit the Mountie about his wheezing—easier than thinking about that silent figure in the hospital bed, about a soot-covered Fraser gasping into an oxygen mask, about those pale, blank eyes in Zenk’s face.

Easier to say, “Yeah, tell it to the Marines,” and stomp the accelerator on the Riv, knowing that Fraser would respond with,

“Tell it to _whom_ , Ray?”

“It’s an expression. It means I think you’re bluffing.”

“Ah.” Pause. Then, exactly as Ray had planned, “But, Ray, why _Marines_ , exactly?”

——

The smell of burning came to him even in his sleep, drifting up from the basement of the apartment building. Fraser sat up and listened for movement. Nothing. He lay back down.

It was a relief to be home, even if he’d gotten permission by promising to guard the empty building. Replacing boarded-up doors and windows would take a few days; replacing burned-out wiring in the basement would take a few days; guarding the building for his neighbors in the meantime was the least he could do. At least there was running water.

Moonlight stole through the window, onto Diefenbaker, asleep on the floor between the window and the bed, blending his pale fur into the pale light, like some ghost from the Ice Age. Must be well after midnight.

Fraser turned over. He had gone to bed in shirt and jeans, in case of alarm. Perhaps he should have sat up all night. At the very thought, exhaustion flooded through him; there had been too many short nights lately.

He closed his eyes and slept.

Suffocating; he was suffocating. He struggled for air.

Weight on his chest; Fraser opened his eyes into the blank face of the moon. Dizzy—what was that smell—it—dizzy—

The moon had a face with pale blue eyes—crafty eyes that crinkled with smiles. Fraser struggled to rise, struggled to speak. Zenk! Lemuel Zenk!

But Fraser’s lips refused to open—tape across his mouth. And Fraser’s arms refused to cooperate—wrists bound by handcuffs. And—dizzy— He looked over to Diefenbaker, sprawled in the moonlight, tongue lolling from his mouth. Drugged.

Fraser glared at Zenk and tried to kick away, but Zenk had him pinned.

He cried out against the tape at the unexpected flash of pain from his arm; Zenk showed him the straight razor now gleaming with Fraser’s blood. Fraser’s own razor. Zenk was smiling.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I want you both.”

Zenk’s strong fingers grabbed Fraser’s jaw and slammed his head against the wall once, twice.

Then, darkness.

——

“Well, sir, Pekingese generally do not act as conduits for the Antichrist,” Ray said evenly into the phone. Today. He had to pick today to come to work, to answer the phone every time it rang. And he’d had such a good time last night, at Uncle Vincenzo’s birthday party. Why hadn’t he just called in sick?

“Yes, I understand that the millennium is near, and that the final battle between the forces of heaven and hell is about to begin. It’s just that a Pekingese is a surprising choice as avatar for the Prince of Darkness.” If Huey didn’t stop laughing over there, Ray was going to throw something heavy at him.

“Of course I understand how upsetting this must be. Have you had the dog checked out? Well, a good veterinarian could tell you a lot. Of course, sir. Any time, sir. Happy to be of assistance.” Elaine was mouthing something at him, pointing at his phone. He looked down and saw that one of the buttons was blinking. “Yes—happy apocalypse to you, too, sir. Good-bye.”

Ignore Huey, now limp with laughter in his chair; punch the button. It just better not be another nutcase reporting some apocalyptic dragon—

“Why, hel _lo_ , Inspector Thatcher! No, I _haven’t_ seen Constable Fraser today—” Ray’s heart skipped a beat. The Mountie was _never_ late to work. “I’ll swing by his apartment. Perhaps he was hung up in traffic. Well, those sidewalks can get pretty congested this time of day— _Good_ -bye!” he said as she slammed the phone down in his ear. No sense of humor.

On with the jacket; try not to kill too many civilians on the way to Racine. Ray unholstered his gun as he entered the building, passing the glass installers breakfasting in the lobby.

He was going to feel like a prize idiot if Benny had just overslept his alarm. A relieved idiot, but an idiot.

Third floor, and silence. Good construction—couldn’t even hear the workmen.

Gun in hand, Ray paused outside 3J, listening at the door. Nothing. Well, make your move, Vecchio.

He opened the door and crouched in one movement, letting the door swing back, studying the room along the barrel of his gun. Nobody. Nobody in the dining area; nobody in the closet; nobody in the—

He froze. Diefenbaker was sprawled on the floor beside Benny’s bed, tongue lolled out of his mouth. He reached down and put a hand on the wolf’s ribs. Good breathing—he supposed. Good heartbeat—he surmised. Drugged, probably.

And on the bed— His brain seemed to have shut down. On the bed— His body was working on automatic. On the rumpled bed was a straight razor glistening with blood. Fresh blood.

And on the bed was a note, words neatly printed: “Therefore because the king’s commandment was urgent, and the furnace exceeding hot, the flame of the fire slew those men that took up Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”

And, at the bottom of the note, “COME FIND US.”

——

 _Ray._

 _Warn Ray._

But arms refused to move—handcuffs. Hands behind him—handcuffs. On his knees with hands cuffed behind him to something solid. Lips sealed by tape. Head throbbing.

And he was— He fought the rising panic. Blind he was blind again he was— Fraser took a deep breath. The touch of fabric on his face told him that something had been pulled over his head, blindfolding him. Just a blindfold. Relax.

Knees pressed to cold concrete; something small scuttling nearby; sense of being enclosed. Building—abandoned building? Strong smell of alcohol. There was an abandoned factory listed on the card he and Ray had received from the homeless woman—a factory that had not been torched that last night—

Fraser felt fear run through him, tried to let it ease out through his fingers and his toes. No use to panic. Ray would find him. It seemed his lot in life, Fraser thought with rueful amusement, to be kidnapped by arsonists; and Ray’s lot to find him. Ray would find him.

Something scraped nearby. Something splashed onto the floor. Fraser choked at the stench of kerosene.

“Almost ready,” a light voice mocked. Lemuel Zenk.

Fraser pulled, but the handcuffs held fast. He tried to relax. Don’t struggle so hard that you make a spark: the kerosene would go up like— He swallowed hard. Just don’t struggle too hard.

Ray would find him in time.

He would. Fraser was counting on him.

——

Fraser was counting on him. Oh, jeez, this was a big building; how would Ray find the Mountie in time?

“Nothing yet,” he said into the radio.

Uniforms had rousted a couple winos just inside and done a quick sweep of the first floor, but Welsh had pulled everybody out to watch the perimeter: no sense in having too many bodies in danger if the place went up. Ray smiled grimly. This way, he’d have only one person to rescue from a fiery death; and with Fraser he’d had practice.

“I’m going to the basement,” he told Welsh over the radio. That was where Zenk’s fires always started; that’s where he’d stash the Mountie.

“Understood,” said Welsh. Ray smiled as he put away the radio. The Mountie seemed to be rubbing off on people.

The basement was dim and filled with trash, with piles of old crates. Ray smelled mold and dirt, but mostly he smelled alcohol and kerosene. He reholstered his gun; a spark in the wrong place, and this building might go up like a fireworks stand.

He eased through the labyrinth of crates, alert for sounds beyond the scuttling of rats, beyond the thumping of his own heart. Sidestep puddles; try not to think about the state of the floor. These shoes were going to be a total loss. Kerosene and alcohol smell was stronger here: he could see a double track shimmering into darkness at the other end of the basement. A double trail of kerosene leading at this end to—

—to Fraser. Kneeling, hands behind him, some sort of bag over his head. Fraser, fastened to a pipe like a goat tied to a stake. Blood caked on his arm. And above him— Ray swallowed hard. Above him, in the struts, a tilting barrel probably full of something flammable. A rope kept it up there; if the rope let go—

“Fraser,” he hissed. The Mountie was so still. If he was dead, so was Zenk; Ray would cut his heart out with a butter knife.

Fraser lifted his head, and Ray’s heart began to beat again. He fumbled for the radio. “Got him!” he said triumphantly into it as he started over to Fraser. “Basement; northwest corner. Get somebody down here; we got a lot of kerosene all over—”

Movement at the other end of the basement stopped him. A flicker of light; he squinted. A flame no bigger than a star, illuminating a pale face: Zenk.

“And there went out fire from the Lord, and devoured them, and they died before the Lord,” he called out pleasantly, and then, “Sorry, Detective Vecchio. You and Constable Fraser played my game very well.” And he tossed down the flame.

Time seemed to halt as Ray watched the twin trails of fire speed toward him between heartbeats. Two walls of fire, and he was in their path.

Then the two trails curved apart and flashed around him and Fraser, joining behind them in a wide circle of flame. Flame that roared when it hit a crate that must have been soaked in kerosene. A column of fire now licked at the rope holding the barrel above them.

Ray gaped at it, horror-stricken, for a moment. “Get us outta here _now-w-w-w!_ ” he shrieked into the radio.

Then he dropped to help Fraser, now yanking at the handcuffs as if trying to wrench the pipe out of the floor. Off with the bag, and for the first time since they met Ray saw terror in the Mountie’s eyes. Off with the tape.

“You _do_ have a key for these,” Fraser said.

The handcuffs were standard issue. Key. Key. Ray fumbled in his pants pockets. Don’t look at the fire licking at the rope. Just find the stupid key. Key key key key key. Where’d he keep that damn key?

Fraser wrenched against the cuffs. “If—if you don’t find it quickly, I want you to get out of here without me!” he shouted.

“Oh, yeah, right— _that’s_ gonna happen!” Key. He started on the pockets in his jacket. Don’t look at the barrel up there; don’t think about that stuff ready to cascade down and turn you and Benny into toast; just find the key key key. Where the hell was the stupid _key?_

Smoke colored the air. He coughed. Don’t look at the burning rope.

“I _mean_ it, Ray! If you don’t find it quickly—”

“Shut _up_ , Fraser!”

Keykeykeykey— _key!_ Grinning, Ray pulled his spare key from his inside jacket pocket and slid it into the lock. Twist, unlock. Fraser rubbed his wrists.

“We gotta get outta here!” Ray shouted, pointing up.

The flames near them had died down enough that Ray’s jacket smothered them; he and Fraser belly crawled away from the tilting barrel. Smoke thickened the air, though there was a lot more light than Ray had expected.

He heard a ripping sound behind him, turned to find that Fraser had torn his own flannel shirt in two and was handing him a section to tie around his nose and mouth. It cut the smoke some, but Ray still felt as if he were smothering.

Stairs. Where the hell were the damn _stairs?_ He blinked through smoke, puzzled about the light ahead.

And then realized that he was seeing the crates he’d walked between earlier, burning like pillars of fire between him and Fraser and the safety of the stairs.

Aw, jeez. Ray closed his eyes, feeling sweat soak the mask over his face. He and Fraser had probably two minutes before either the rope on the barrel burned through and let it dump its deadly load, or everything in the basement combusted. Either way, they were dead. And, if their clothes caught fire while they ran a gauntlet between the crates, they’d be lucky to get out of the building alive.

Fraser pulled on his arm. Ray looked at him. In his eyes was that Mountie look—the one that said everything was going to be fine if they just kept a stiff upper lip. And he realized that Fraser was pointing ahead, to the crates.

To the trickle of liquid steaming between them as it inched toward him and Fraser.

Water. Gushing down the stairs and trickling into the basement. Firefighters. And if he and Fraser could get past the crates, water would put out their clothes.

Ray looked at the Mountie and ripped off his own loose shirt. He studied their path and nodded to Fraser.

Fraser held up a forefinger. One.

Fraser held up the next finger. Two.

Fraser held up the next finger. Three—

And they were scrambling between the crates, into the wall of heat, skirting flame. Fire on both sides, and Ray concentrated on the path ahead, on the way through the boxes to the stairs.

It was easier than it should have been: adrenaline speeded his legs, and the path was well lit; he followed the gleaming snail track of water that had made its way down the stairs.

Still, the run seemed to go on forever, forever.

Then he plunged into darkness and barked his shin on something hard. He pitched forward onto a set of damp concrete steps leading up.

Wheezing from behind him, and hands were brushing his shoulders. He turned; Fraser was brushing something off his back. Ray knocked embers off Fraser’s shoulders, brushed glowing ash out of Fraser’s hair. He thought giddily that he’d never thought he’d be thankful his own hair was so thin—nothing much up there to catch fire.

Then Fraser was tugging him up the stairs, on hands and knees; then they were being helped by people in helmets and suits.

“Alcohol!” Fraser shouted. “It’s going to go up!”

Wonderful, this decisiveness. No arguing; just a quick hustle out of the building, out to where the sun shone dim through a pall of smoke. It didn’t seem right that the sun was still up; Ray had been in that basement forever, and here it was still daylight.

A scramble of police and fire fighters to get away away from the building. Ray followed where he was led, gulping air. Even with the tang of smoke from Zenk’s fire, Chicago air was sweet.

He collapsed beside Fraser, wondering if he himself looked that sooty and scorched. Probably.

Then he looked down the street in time to see a flower bloom inside the factory, a flower of fire that pushed through windows, shattering what was left of the glass. Aw, jeez—that would’ve been him and Benny. Aw, jeez—that _was_ his best jacket and his new shirt.

The flower pushed through the roof; Ray watched in astonishment as a section of the roof blew skyward, then began a leisurely fall toward the street, trailing fire and smoke.

Oh, no—not the Riv. Not the Riv. Don’t go for the Riv! Hadn’t he parked far enough down the block that this shouldn’t happen?

The roof fell instead on the van parked in the alley—Zenk’s van, which they’d staked out before Ray had entered the building. Ray laughed joyously: what a universe! The van crumpled under the burning section of roof, which settled gently around it.

A heartbeat, two.

“Not good,” one of the fire fighters said behind Ray. “This is not good.”

But it was beautiful when the gas tank exploded, beautiful when the ball of fire surrounded what was left of the van, beautiful when a howl of protest went up from somewhere in the crowd, beautiful when debris flung into the air began to float down around them: bills bearing Benjamin Franklin’s smiling face, haloed in flame. Beautiful.

“Hundred-dollar bills,” Ray heard Lieutenant Welsh say, “Well, it would seem that our Mr. Zenk here serves both God and mammon with great eagerness.”

Zenk. They had him. Ray lay back on the cool sidewalk as the firefighters surged ahead to do their work, listening to indistinct sounds of anguish that could only be coming from the arsonist.

They finally had him.

——

They had her. Fraser stood in the hall outside Ophallia’s room, watching the Angille family through the door. Mrs. Angille smoothed Ophallia’s hair back from her forehead, over and over, as the doctor spoke; Mr. Angille had hold of his daughter’s hand as if never to let go. It was a comforting picture. He had a sudden image of his own parents, bathed in the warm light of the kerosene lamp, and repressed a surge of envy.

“Nice picture,” Ray said, coming up beside him. “Hope this time she can keep it together.”

“Perhaps this time she will. At least she’s getting another chance.”

They turned to walk down the hall together.

“This has been one unimaginable day,” Ray said. “But at least it’s over. Now I can get some rest. Nevitte and Southworth are real party women; gotta rest up for them. They and Huey’ll be busy tonight following up on Zenk’s confession— nailing the case up tight.”

For, apparently undone by the sight of everything he owned destroyed by his own fire, Lemuel Zenk was being extremely forthcoming. In fact, as Detective Nevitte merrily put it, they could not shut him up. Alternating between apocalyptic harangues and detailed lists of those who had hired him to torch their property, Zenk had out-talked his attorney, who, the last time Fraser had been near the interrogation room, appeared to be sulking in a corner.

“Jeez, I love it when everything comes together at the end of a case. Zenk, Angille—hey, we went from A to Z on this case!”

Fraser laughed with him, but his mind was on his mother’s gentle touch as she tucked him into bed, on his father’s strength as he stood in the doorway—images of comfort that would never be again.

“At least she gets to go back to Runamukluk,” Ray said cheerfully.

Fraser blinked. “It’s Inuvik, Ray. And you’re thinking of Tuktoyaktuk. Runamukluk is farther west.”

“ _What?_ ”

Fraser grinned at him. Americans could be so gullible.

“Oh, very funny,” said Ray. Then, “Think I could get a job up there, just for a couple years?”

“Perhaps. Why?”

“Well, the turn of the century is coming up, and I just got this feeling that I’d like to get as far from Chicago as I can—you know, hide out ’till all the nutcases calm down.”

“Well, Tuktoyaktuk is as far north as you can get and stay in this hemisphere. But, Ray, if the world _does_ come to an end on January 1, 2001, as many seem to be predicting, hiding out in Canada won’t do you any good.”

“Yeah, but, at least I won’t have to listen to all those people going, ‘I told you so.’ ”

“Ah. Well, then, that would be the place to go.” He smiled to himself. “Or perhaps Seal Maw; I understand it’s quite lovely during its two weeks of summer … ”

——

Good man, good cop, good family man—keep all secure, keep the family safe. Check basement; check front door; no one in the yard, no one in the shadows. Move through the house, checking windows, checking corners, gun at your side, hidden by a fold of pajamas.

Check basement—no smoke, no sound, no smell beyond faint dampness. Check back door—nothing in the yard, gun easy in your hand. All secure; all safe.

Upstairs, listening to murmurs from Tony and Maria’s room; a laugh—all secure. Ceaseless murmurs from Ma’s room: prayers for Ray, for the family, for the Mountie—prayers for the whole world, it sometimes seemed. Ray stood alone in the dark hall for a minute, letting the warm, rich murmur of his mother’s prayers wash over him.

All safe; all secure. Radio on low in Frannie’s room; smell of nail polish—all safe.

Into your room, look outside—no one in the shadows. Unload the gun and lock it up; slip into bed.

Eyes closed, relax. At the back of his mind ran the murmur of prayers, and he let them wash away the aftertaste of fear little by little, until it was no longer there.

——

“—I listened to the wind make the ice floes creak outside, and the wolves bay, and the thousand other sounds of the winter night; and as I listened to my heart beat, I released the fear inside me, little by little, until it was no longer there. And then I closed my eyes and slept soundly till morning.”

Fraser closed his father’s journal and laid it aside before rising to look through the window at the dim alley. Nothing in the shadows. Nothing in the empty hallway—just the lingering stench of the extinguished fire.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Let go of the fear; let go of the dregs of it. On the bed, Diefenbaker whimpered in his dreams, paws twitching on the blanket—running from something in his sleep.

A trap. Fraser raised the window in the tiny kitchen and slipped through it onto the fire escape. Air—as fresh as it ever was in the city.

The waning moon rode the sky, pouring dim light into the street. Moonlight, diluted by city light, bathed him. Let go of the fear. The bruises around his wrists were mottled darkness.

Let go of the fear. Nothing lurked in the shadows. The city sounds seemed muted. The smell of an old fire drifted up from the basement.

He slipped back into the apartment and closed the window, latching it securely. Bed. Let go of the fear and go to bed.

Bed was the floor tonight, solid and familiar. Let Diefenbaker have the soft mattress as he slept off the effects of the drug. Fraser stretched out on his blanket and composed himself for sleep. Let go.

A story drifted into his mind as he closed his eyes, a story he had loved as a child. It was the tale of the orphan boy who traveled far, far south to bring light and warmth back to his village, which had not seen them for years. Across a dark landscape he walked, through blinding snowstorms, past ferocious creatures, receiving help from unexpected sources and protected by the skin of a black bird, which his mother had given him before she died. At last he came to where the sun and the moon floated near the ground, dimmed by the snow an old man tossed up in a shovel.

Tricking the old man, the boy tossed the moon into the sky, where it cast a gentle light; and he tucked the sun under his arm, running fast for his village. Pursued, the boy put on the bird skin and became a raven which flew high through the darkness, occasionally breaking off pieces from the sun to light his way.

So it was he came to his village, with the last bit of sun, and there became a boy again, bringing the light he had promised. And because he broke off pieces of the sun so randomly, the world has day and night, sometimes long days and sometimes long nights. Eventually the boy grew to be a great hunter who married and lived happily with his wife and children; and they also could become ravens whenever they wished.

Fraser felt himself relaxing, drifting off into the story. Sometimes he felt like the boy, still on his journey due south, carrying his family’s influence as he fumbled through a strange landscape; and sometimes he was the bold and clever raven, scattering light to illuminate a dark world.

And sometimes, like tonight, he dreamed he was the man, teaching his children to become ravens themselves, to fly high and bold, even through the chilly darkness of their own fears, until they came to daylight and to the warmth of their own happy endings.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my stab at a _due South_ case; it was lots of fun to write, especially coming up with the millennium maniacs who plague Ray. It's also an attempt to write a slash story and a gen version that wasn't just the slash version without sex scenes. (Amusingly, when Fraser and Ray are escaping the fire in the warehouse, in the slash version Ray pushes Fraser out of the circle of fire ahead of him, while in the gen version he selfishly crawls out first!)
> 
> Research was fun: fingerprints, fire-starting. Also, the Inuit story Fraser tells himself at the end; the boy traveling south, helped by a dead mother's influence, was just perfect for this series, in which a man goes "due south" and brings light into the darkness of not a few souls. I liked the thought of what Fraser and Ray would do to make themselves feel safe in the aftermath of frightening stuff: Ray, guarding his family and solacing himself with his mother's prayers, and Fraser, comforting himself with an Inuit story.
> 
> It also has a certain amount of personal experience in it: the homeless woman saying, "zwoop, zwoop, zwoop," happened to me, though my homeless person was male. I wanted to come up with something that would make the phrase make sense to the person saying it, even if it didn't to the person hearing it. And even though you might not find those addresses in Chicago, I hope I gave at least a little sense of the city I've visited and enjoyed immensely.
> 
> This story originally appeared in the print fanzine _Compass Points 2_.


End file.
